


A Child's Christmas in Baker Street

by lbmisscharlie



Series: Cinnamon [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-21
Updated: 2012-12-21
Packaged: 2017-11-21 20:59:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/602015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas at Baker Street was never likely to be typical.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Child's Christmas in Baker Street

Somehow it was the middle of November, rounding quickly onto December and Imogen’s winter hols. Before school let out, though, Imogen needed to complete a project focusing on exploring the family diversity of her primary school cohort. Given the complexity of Imogen’s family state, John found himself eager to help her craft her presentation.

One morning, after walking Imogen to school and settling in for a day off from the surgery, John thought to attempt to unearth some of the materials she’d need to complete the project. Glancing over the assignment form Imogen had brought home, John furrowed his brow. “Sherlock? Does Imogen have a baby book or photo albums or anything?” Sherlock looked up at him, glancing across the kitchen table.

“There’s an album from before she came to me.” He considered for a moment. “I believe it’s on the bookshelf nearest the window. Third shelf, left side.” 

John pushed up from the table to take a look, calling back in a teasing tone, “You never kept a baby book then? Baby’s first crime scene, baby’s first pickpocketing, baby’s first explosion?”

“Very amusing, John. And no, not as such,” he added, with what John could tell was deliberate nonchalance.

“Not as such?” John turned to face Sherlock, who busied himself looking into his microscope. “That means you kept something. Out with it, it’s for the good of your daughter’s education.”

Sherlock scoffed, but muttered, “Lab books.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Lab books? Don’t tell me you…” He laughed a bit as realization dawned. “You kept track of your results, didn’t you? Like Imogen was one of your experiments.”

Sherlock harrumphed at John’s teasing tone, keeping his head down, focused on his microscope. “All things in life are experiments, John, and one never knows when the results may be pertinent.”

With Sherlock’s help, John located three marbled lab notebooks, battered and well-used. John flipped through the books, each page filled with Sherlock’s sprawling, loose handwriting, marked by stains familiar to all parents – pureed baby food, rings of coffee – as well as some slightly more unsettling, such as the hole where some acidic substance ate through a dozen pages and the back cover.

The entries, dated daily from the time Imogen was five months old, detailed her biological stats to an almost obsessive degree – length, weight, approximate hair growth, skin tone, reflexes, urination and bowel movements. It may have gone beyond your average baby book, but it was no less than John would expect from Sherlock’s scientific mind.

The daily stats, though, were annotated with Sherlock’s musings on Imogen’s likes and dislikes, the foods that made her smile, objects she reached for most often, and actions that made her giggle. Though all written in Sherlock’s coolly methodical prose, the snippets nonetheless gave a narrow insight into Sherlock’s life as a single parent of a baby.

_12 Feb 2006 – I.M.’s consumption of food more than average. Sweet potatoes + carrots. Likes?_

_13 Feb 2006 – Consumption of s.p. +c. once again above average. Conclusion – a preference._

_5 May 2006 – I.M. giggles when stimulated in a tickling fashion on sides of torso. Noise very satisfactory._

_3 July 2006 – I.M. stood unassisted. Pulled down important experiment on decomp rates of shellfish. Will consider placing experiments further out of reach._

_22 July 2006 – I.M. one year old today. Research indicates development on-track physically for age, very advanced mentally. To be expected._

_9 Oct 2006 – I.M. developed ability to remove mobile phone from jacket pocket. Shows preference for contact no.2 (G.L.) over contact no.1 (M.H.) Also preference for chewing on casing of phone – not satisfactory, to be discouraged._

He laid the notebooks aside, vowing to read them in more depth soon, and pulled out the leather-bound album. Its dark pages only one-third full, it held snapshots of Imogen’s first four months of life. A bright-eyed baby with a full head of dark hair, she was occasionally accompanied in the photos by an olive-skinned man with a studious, intense gaze, and a lanky woman with a wide, generous, laughing mouth.

These were the first pictures John had seen of Imogen’s parents; their faces candescent with so much love, bewilderment, and wonder. There was no trace of the tragedy that would befall them, of the dark secrets and betrayals of their last months. In the last picture in the album, Imogen lay on her back, feet a blur as they kicked the air above her, mouth wide open in a gummy grin. He closed it tenderly, feeling a deep sense of sadness for the nascent family torn asunder. Though he couldn’t help but feel an immense gratitude that Sherlock had been chosen to take Imogen in, that Sherlock had chosen John to stay by their side, that he had faced his own fears and stuck around to become a part of their family.

When he looked up, Sherlock’s eyes were on the album in his hands, a slight frown on his face as he watched the care John took in closing the book and placing it to one side. “Do you have more pictures of Imogen?” John asked, already suspecting the answer.

“I know what Imogen looks like; I’ve never felt the need to memorialise her likeness. Though,” Sherlock continued, staving off John’s protests over the reasoning behind family photographs, “I am aware of the importance of such traditions. I do believe Mycroft, in fact, has a number he may be willing to share.”

Mycroft did indeed. A single phone call and mere hours later a package arrived, with a few dozen carefully selected photographs spanning the five years of Imogen’s life. Many were clearly taken on holiday celebrations at Mycroft’s flat – in one, Imogen peered over a large Easter ham, and in another John spotted a Christmas tree tastefully decorated with silver baubles.

Sherlock and Imogen, John gathered, had no fixed traditions for Christmas beyond those enforced by Mycroft. There was no stash of ornaments in an unused corner of the flat, no carols on Sherlock’s iPod, no Christmas pudding started in October. Though not a big believer in the tinsel and trappings of the holiday, Sherlock didn’t totally eschew Christmas, taking Imogen to Mycroft’s each Boxing Day for presents and dinner.

In some way, though, they seemed to mark the day in their own way; when the subject was brought up, Imogen told John about skidding in their boots across the frozen pond at Hampstead Heath – “An experiment in tensile strength” – and determining the likely contents in the shopping bags of holiday punters.

John looked forward to introducing Imogen – them both, really – to the wonders of a holiday at home. With Sherlock’s beleaguered permission, he’d begun to plan a traditional Christmas day for 221b, in so far as Sherlock and Imogen ever did anything traditionally. Tradition, he decided, must begin with a tree.

Going to a car park may not be the sledge rides and bells-on-bobtail of carol fame, but it would get them a tree without a trip to the country. It also avoided the inevitable chainsaw experimentation on Sherlock’s part. The small lot was full of the sort of forced bonhomie necessary to transform a dreary plot of London asphalt into a pine-scented winter forest, but it had promise.

Imogen ran down the slim rows of trees with glee, hands outstretched to brush the needles as she passed. To John’s surprise, Sherlock actually seemed to enjoy the process, applying his critical eye to determine the most aesthetically pleasing tree for their space. Comparing height, width, conical shape, and branch density, he and Imogen immediately dismissed 90% of the offerings, finally bringing the choices down to two rather pleasing evergreens.

John was given the final decision, and, given that he was also mostly responsible for carrying it home, Sherlock having chosen to wear a suit that “Would be positively ruined by all that sap, John,” he decided on the slightly smaller of the two. He managed to hoist the trunk firmly onto his good shoulder; despite Sherlock’s earlier protestations, he nonetheless donned a pair of gloves and lifted the top.

With Imogen skipping beside them and calling out directions to Sherlock, whose vision was slightly impeded by branches, they managed it easily the few streets back to Baker Street. They made it up the stairs without dislodging anything, miraculously, and the tree was placed by the fireplace, Imogen’s artist’s eye helping to choose the best angle to display its lush branches.

One day after school, he and Imogen headed to the shops, staggering home with an obscene amount of tinsel, glitter, bells, and everything else they needed to create a full plethora of decorations to festoon 221b.

After draping fairy lights over the windows and around the bison’s horns, topping Kelvin with a jaunty Santa hat, and constructing yards and yards of paper chains – mostly from old medical journals, generously covered in glitter – Imogen sat down to create tree ornaments, having declared glass balls and baubles ‘boring.’ John settled next to Sherlock on the sofa with a generous mug of tea; he looked over Sherlock’s shoulder to read with him the comments on Sherlock’s website’s forum. Sherlock – very pointedly – waited for John to catch up before scrolling down each page.

As Sherlock moved from the forum to checking emails, John glanced down at the floor, where Imogen sat with stacks of coloured paper, stiff card, a full rainbow of colouring pencils, and a very large jug of silver glitter. Bent close to her paper, she studiously drew, producing detailed – if slightly outlandish – anatomical drawings of various organs, to be enhanced by glitter once finished.

“I think we’ve created a monster,” John commented, watching her vigorously shake the glitter, wincing as it sprinkled generously over not only her ornaments but also the rug.

Dryly, not looking up from his – John’s – laptop, Sherlock responded, “I’m sure I had nothing to do with it.”

“Is that your first edition Gray’s _Anatomy_ she’s using for reference?” Sherlock made an urgent, choking noise, half rising to look at where Imogen sat on the floor before collapsing back and glaring at John. “Oh, my mistake, it’s my old textbook, no harm done.”

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are, John.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” John gave Sherlock a wide, teasing grin, earning an eye-roll in return. Deciding to ignore Sherlock, he settled onto the floor next to Imogen, helping her cut out her illustrations and affix them to card, punching holes and stringing ribbon before finally placing them – with geometrically symmetrical precision – on the branches of the tree. They turned the lights low and admired their twinkling, sparkling, transformed home.

++

Outside the day dawned bright and cold; not a white Christmas, but a blue one, the sky open and clear and full of the weak, pale, chill light of the winter sun. Frost traced patterns on the windows and Baker Street, two storeys down, was quiet and calm. The door to the upstairs bedroom burst open as a wriggling body threw itself onto the bed to tunnel under the duvet, between John and Sherlock’s sprawling bodies.

They were both already awake, having shared hazy, sleep-dulled kisses, sloppily and unconcernedly drawing in each other’s morning breath. John bit back a gasp as Imogen’s cold feet scrabbled against his legs as she manoeuvred her way up to the pillows.

“Papa, John, it’s _Christmas_. That means it’s time to get up.” She propped her chin up on her elbows, head swivelling to look at each of them in turn, voice emphatic.

John lazily snaked one arm around her and gave a huge, fake yawn. “D’you think? I was planning on sleeping through Christmas, myself.” He fluttered his eyes nearly shut, glancing at Sherlock from under his lashes.

“Jooohn,” Imogen moaned, wiggling her narrow shoulders under his heavy arm. “You can’t sleep through Christmas.”

Sherlock smirked, face still half-obscured by his pillow. “You’d be surprised what John can sleep through,” he mumbled dryly. John reached across Imogen and flicked Sherlock’s ear. Kicking her feet, Imogen pulled the duvet up, letting in a draft that had John cursing under his breath but conceding to Imogen’s demands to get up.

Sherlock didn’t take much convincing once John was out of bed and the three, wrapped in dressing gowns, made their way downstairs to their bright and festive sitting room and a tree presiding over a small pile of presents.

Sherlock had decided quite unilaterally against Father Christmas – “We are not perpetuating that fiction, and anyway, Imogen wouldn’t believe it” – which John hadn’t minded. As the older child, he had, shortly after putting the pieces together regarding the existence of flying reindeer, helped his Mum fill Harry’s stocking on Christmas Eve two years in a row. The last time, however, she had woken and, walking into the sitting room sleepy-eyed in her pyjamas, had spied him with a handful of satsumas and the jig was up. No amount of attempting to convince her she was dreaming worked and from then the whole family helped fill stockings together.

Beneath the tree, therefore, sat a handful of well-chosen and carefully disguised gifts. John had made an executive decision that presents could only be placed under the tree on Christmas Eve, in order to reduce the amount of time in which Sherlock and Imogen could peek, shake, weigh, and generally deduce the contents. Imogen immediately proceeded to do just that, sitting cross-legged next to the tree and inspecting each package which John went into the kitchen to get the kettle going.

Sherlock sat on the coffee table, sharing his own observations as Imogen held up each package in turn. “Interesting,” he commented as she held up the small box which contained his own gift from John. Imogen tossed it to him; he caught it in one hand. Hefting its weight, he commented, “Size suggests jewellery but it’s too lightweight to be a jewellery case. Knowing John,” he added pointedly toward the kitchen, “it’ll be something practical. Not something I actually need, though, as I purchase any necessities myself.”

“Yeah, and it makes it bloody difficult to buy you presents. C’mon then, no deducing all my surprises before breakfast.” Imogen gave her gift from John one last rattle, Sherlock slipping his own box into his dressing gown pocket, and the two came into the kitchen while John fried up a full English, one of his favourite holiday indulgences. As they ate, John caught Sherlock’s hand fingering the small box in his pocket idly.

He had been given a bit of a start earlier when Sherlock had mentioned jewellery. Was that what he expected, then, a shiny ring or pair of cufflinks? The thought of the former gave John mild arrhythmia; they’d known each other less than a year, been properly together for only part of that, on a generous reckoning. They’d only really begun to sort out the co-parenting business.

But Sherlock, he thought, glancing sidelong at the man, who had speared a sausage on his fork and was eating it idly by taking bites from either end, was hardly the sort to care overly about the socially-sanctioned formalities of a relationship. Indeed, he had a suspicion any legal paperwork naming Sherlock Imogen’s legal guardian had only come about through Mycroft’s meddling five years ago.

Hadn’t Sherlock basically asked him to stay in their lives, permanently, those months ago at the hospital? His position there, in the flat, in the family, was fluid but not tenuous, his claims perhaps not legal but strong nonetheless. Someday, he thought, someday when they all were ready, they’d sign some papers and make things official.

He only realized he was staring, unfocused, when Sherlock pulled the box out and placed it next to his fork on the table. He glanced up to see Sherlock looking searchingly at him. “I’ve figured it out.”

“Have you now?”

“Yes. It’s a new magnifier. You know that the case on mine cracked some weeks ago and have replaced it for me.”

“Hmm, is that so?” John answered noncommittally. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You’re in the general area and that’s all I’ll tell you.” Sherlock harrumphed and leaned back in his chair.

Imogen scrambled to clear her plate, announcing, the instant she swallowed her last bite of eggs, “It’s present time now!” She looked imploringly to John. “Right, John?”

He couldn’t help but crack a smile at her pleading expression. “Yeah, alright. Let’s go see what the tree has to offer.” She scampered off, John and Sherlock following more sedately behind, and immediately picked up her own gift from Sherlock.

Like he bought his own necessities, Sherlock generally bought anything Imogen needed, and much of what she wanted, with a careless swipe of his card. Presents from him, John had discovered on her birthday, tended to be slightly more extravagant versions of things he would have gotten her anyway. So he wasn’t surprised when she opened the box to pull out a glass cloche containing a delicately articulated skeletal hand.

She lifted the globe off with careful fingers, setting it delicately to one side before gingerly touching the tip of the index finger. It flexed under the pressure of her hand and grinned wildly up at her father. “It’s amazing, Papa!”

“It came from an 86-year-old surgeon who donated his body to Bart’s for research. Very interesting occupational markers on the phalanges.” Imogen peered at the small bones.

“It’s wonderful,” John commented to Sherlock. “Really beautifully mounted.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I had a favour owed and the timing was right – Mike’s class finished their study a month ago, just enough time to have the bones cleaned and mounted.”

“I’m surprised you only took the hand.”

Sherlock frowned slightly. “Mike would only let me take one part. Said the rest had to stay with the school as training models,” he answered, clearly still disgruntled.

Sherlock was still fingering the small box containing John’s gift, rolling it absently between his fingers. “Go on then, open yours up.” Sherlock immediately sat up and, tearing off the paper in one swoop, opened the small box to pull out a small metal cylindrical device. He rolled it between his fingers, examining the parts.

With an exclamation of discovery, Sherlock launched off the sofa to pick up his iPhone from the mantle. He’d acquired it two weeks ago after his last mobile had taken a tumble in the sewers; similar fates seemed to befall his phones with alarming frequency. Based on the fact that the device looked nothing like the iPhones in store at the moment, John suspected it was either a prototype or a heavily modded custom job. At any rate, Sherlock seemed to treat it with slightly more care than many of his other belongings.

Screwing the device into the camera lens, Sherlock peered with satisfaction at the screen, which revealed a close-up view of the back of his hand. “A microscopic lens attachment.” He flicked through the lenses, examining each magnification. “Surprisingly good quality for something of this sort. Well done, John.”

John grinned back, pleased. “You can buy plastic versions of them, but I had an engineer I knew from the army custom work this one out of the lenses from a miniature field microscope.” He’d been a little anxious that Sherlock would see the device as a toy or a gag, but his eyes widened slightly at John’s elaboration and he inspected the item even more closely, clearly pleased. “That’s not quite all. Go look on the middle shelf of the fridge.”

Sherlock considered John for a moment, a surprise making his lips twitch into a smile. John gestured him again toward the kitchen, so he went in, pulling open the fridge door and rooting around until he found the large plastic container. He pulled it out and read the label before gaping at John. “Really?”

Pleased, John nodded. “Yup. Molly had a colleague in the north who had a body come in with mad cow disease. You’re holding his brain.”

Sherlock’s eyes shined with delight and he looked on the verge of opening the container up right there to begin dissection. “Creutzfeldt–Jakob disease is very rare.”

“I know. Molly hoped you’d share your findings with her, and with her colleague.” Sherlock looked so thrilled he might have agreed to anything at the moment. He began to crack open the lid at the corner before John laughed. “Maybe later? I don’t think we’re quite done with Christmas.” With a sigh, Sherlock sealed the container and placed it back in the fridge.

He kissed John rather soundly on his return before seating himself in his own armchair opposite John. “How’d you hide it?”

John grinned. That had been one of the more complicated parts of the present. “Molly kept it for me before dropping it off with Mrs Hudson when we were out at dinner yesterday. She kept it until late last night when I picked it up from her and hid it behind the broccoli. You never touch broccoli.”

Sherlock gave him a smirk that encompassed their shared knowledge that Sherlock rarely touched any food that hadn’t yet been prepared by someone else. “And here I thought you were just being uncommonly kind, wishing her happy Christmas and all.”

“I did that too. I signed your name on the card, by the way. She found it delightfully domestic and insinuated something about me making you a good wife. Which I would dispute, but really? I haven’t a leg to stand on.” Sherlock laughed, possibly more pleased with the thought than John was comfortable with.

Imogen crawled out from under the tree to deliver them each a wrapped package. “From me! Mrs Hudson helped some,” she admitted. They opened them together to reveal a pair of drawings, framed in slim black metal frames.

The drawing in John’s hands was of the three of them standing in front of a tall building that he recognized as the Tate Modern. Remembering the first time they’d visited together, and Imogen’s quiet awe and gleeful excitement at the many pieces inside, as well as the chance encounter they’d had after the visit, he felt a lump in his throat.

“It’s wonderful, Imogen, thank you.” She beamed up at him and he leaned over to kiss the top of her head. “We should get back there, soon. They’ll have new exhibits by now.” She agreed enthusiastically and he made a mental note to look up the current shows online later. He and Sherlock traded frames; Sherlock’s was a neatly labelled diagram of the brain. John recognized the handwriting as that of Mary Morstan, Imogen’s teacher, though the drawing was all her.

“There’s one more in there from me, Imogen.” His present was right in front where she’d evidently been saving it. She pulled the paper off and let out a small gasp as she lifted the top of the box. Inside was a full rainbow of watercolour paints – not the cheap dry plastic pallets of his own childhood, but little metal tubes complete with a mixing board, brushes, and a stack of thick watercolour paper.

She stroked her fingers across the tubes, lingering a little on the bright cerulean blue, the evergreen, and the violet. He remembered they had tried out watercolours in art class one day and she had returned full of awe over the new techniques and vivid washes of colour. It had been easy enough to go to the art supply store and ask the clerk about the best watercolour paints and supplies, and the result was more than worth it.

Imogen looked up at him, eyes bright, and breathed out, “Thank you, John!” He nodded his welcome. In perhaps a flurry of gratitude, Imogen grabbed the last gift under the tree and passed it to him. A medium sized box wrapped in plain red paper, it simply said _to J from S_ on the top, scrawled in felt-tip in Sherlock’s hand.

“I considered one of those eye-searing holiday jumpers that seem so prevalent in the shops, but realized it would punish me more than amuse you, and thus ruled it out.” John laughed and began to rip the wrapping off.

It revealed a picture of a rather nice silver Nikon point-and-shoot. John smiled, surprised. How had Sherlock known he’d been looking for a camera for a while now? Really since Imogen’s school project – it had seemed a shame not to have one on hand at least for major occasions, like their first Christmas together. He was wary of dropping a significant amount of money on an impulse buy and had still been comparing models. This particular one had been one of his forerunners.

“Well, you are the self-appointed chronicler of our lives; it only seemed fitting.” John grinned and pried open the box, eager to get the battery charged and capture every fleeting moment of the happy, lazy day.

He plugged it in and kissed Sherlock on his way by. “Thank you,” he murmured against his partner’s lips. “Though it’s too much.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock returned. “It’s much higher quality than the deplorable camera on your phone. It will come in quite handy when I send you to investigate a scene.”

"I was thinking more along the lines of embarrassing domestic pictures I can use to blackmail you, but that works too.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes and John pinched his ear, playfully. “In fact, I wonder if I can get Mycroft to wear a Christmas hat tonight. That could come in handy.”

“Now that I fully support.”

“Is Uncle Mycroft coming to dinner tonight?” Imogen piped up, looking up from her careful study of her presents.

“Undoubtedly. There are always uncles at Christmas, I find.” John choked back a laugh at Sherlock’s despairing tone and received a glare in response. John had, indeed, invited Mycroft, Harry, and even –through Mycroft – Mrs Holmes, though he wasn’t sure she would be coming.

“It will be lovely, I’m sure,” John said sternly. Sherlock just sighed non-committedly. “But they won’t be over until four; we’ve the full day ahead of us.”

++

Mycroft arrived at precisely four, his knock on the door sharp and quick. John went down to let him in, leaving Sherlock lounging on the sofa, peering at his fingernails through his new ‘microscope’, and Imogen munching quite happily on her favourite chocolate biscuits as an appetiser before dinner. Sherlock had even let John turn on the radio and classic carols played softly in the background.

Mycroft, dressed impeccably as usual in a three-piece navy suit, had made a concession to the season in his hunter-green tie. He shook John’s hand in greeting, holding two flat parcels in the other hand.

Imogen sprang up to meet him as they walked into the flat, sweeping her arms around his legs and squeezing him into a hug. With a smile – the true, warm smile he only ever showed for Imogen, as far as John could tell – he put down his boxes and swept her up into a proper embrace.

She pointed to the articulated hand now standing on the coffee table. “Look, Uncle Mycroft, Papa got me a hand for Christmas.”

“Indeed he did.” Mycroft stepped closer, letting Imogen down to take a closer look at the specimen. “Very fine indeed, Sherlock. An elderly surgeon, I see.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow but nodded in confirmation without any snide commentary. Mycroft straightened and gestured to the parcels left by the door. “You’ll find another gift for you there. A bit different from a hand, I’m afraid.”

Imogen scrambled over and inspected the labels on each. “This one’s for you, John!” She handed it up to him.

“Thank you, Mycroft. Sherlock, what have you done with Mycroft’s gift? We chose something for you together; I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, John, I’m shocked you managed to convince my brother to participate at all. He hasn’t given me a gift in a number of years now.”

“That is patently untrue; I come to your little fete each year, do I not?” Mycroft smiled, almost indulgently, as if recognizing that he did indeed value that more than any gift. “Anyway, John, Mycroft’s gift is in the desk drawer.”

John retrieved it and passed the small box over to Mycroft, who sat, not in John’s usual seat, but in Sherlock’s. John found that small gesture strangely welcoming, as if Mycroft were recognizing John’s place in his own home. He then thought that he was clearly spending too much time with the Holmes brothers to have recognized seating choice for the power play it was.

They gestured to Imogen to open hers first; she pulled the paper aside to reveal a rather splendid, thick art book with an intricate botanical illustration on the front. Imogen pursed her lips with interest, cracking the book open to study the images inside.

“All the illustrations are actually paper mosaics; Mrs Delany was quite famous for them.” John inspected the images more closely, looking over Imogen’s shoulder; the work was quite stunning. “The British Museum has quite a collection of them. I thought perhaps we might all go one day to view them. There are a few on display but I know the curator quite well; he’d be happy to pull any you’d like to see more closely.”

Imogen lit up; the British Museum was a favourite haunt. Even Sherlock, John noted, looked mildly impressed as Imogen pointed out a fine image of a delphinium.

“John.” Mycroft indicated toward the package in John’s hand.

“No, please, you go first, you are the guest.” They both ignored Sherlock’s petulant snort.

Mycroft opened the small box, revealing the gold tie-pin within. Of mid-century modern design, it had sleek round edges and a discreet crosshatched etched design. “Thank you, John, Sherlock. It’s quite lovely.”

“It’s not much, but –”

“Nonsense; it’s perfect. I do appreciate it, John.” Imogen handed up her present; another drawing to match the pair she’d already given, this one depicted Mycroft pointing his umbrella quite sternly at a figure that could only be Gordon Brown. John laughed out loud though Mycroft managed to keep his amusement in, cheeks turning pink and mouth twitching up in a smile.

Sherlock took one look at it and declared, “Well, she certainly has your expression down.” That she did; it managed to be both mildly disapproving and wholly terrifying.

“What…how?” John wasn’t even really sure how to phrase his question, but Imogen seemed to understand.

“Papa always says Uncle Mycroft controls the government, and it seemed like loads of people think Mr Brown is bad sometimes, so…” She shrugged.

“Indeed,” Mycroft answered, finally letting out a laugh. “I do rather wish this were how my job worked, sometimes.”

He looked fondly down at the picture, settled in his lap, before turning his attention back to John, gesturing to the final unopened package. “And now, please.” John opened his present, revealing a very fine hand-bound leather photo album. “I thought, since you are clearly to become this family’s historiographer, you should have a fine place for your archive.” John swallowed, undeniably touched. The thick, dark pages promised years of photographs, a lifetime of stories of this strange new family he’d fallen into.

He looked up from the album to see Sherlock and Mycroft exchange a glance. It held no hostility, rather John detected something pass between them that wasn’t quite pleasure or gratitude, but something near it. He murmured his thanks to Mycroft, warmly, receiving a gracious smile in return.

He felt, suddenly, that he and Mycroft shared something beyond a mutual immediate concern for Sherlock and Imogen. While Sherlock and his daughter lived undeniably in the present, flitting from one moment to the next with the excitable inquisitiveness that came from anticipating the unexpected, Mycroft and now John served to keep them attached to their pasts and make some allowances for their futures.

It was, perhaps, a heavy burden to bear, as Mycroft had for this side of three long decades, but he felt strangely honoured to know that Mycroft invited him to share it.

With a mock-petulant tone, Sherlock interrupted the moment. “What about my gift, Mycroft? No hideous tie or Mont Blanc pen?”

Mycroft merely smiled mildly. “I’ve refrained from awarding you a knighthood this year. Happy Christmas.” John snorted a laugh that quickly turned into a cough; the two brothers looked at him with trifling concern.

“Only in the Holmes family.” Mycroft tipped his chin, the tiniest hint of a smile lurking at the corner of his lips. “Knighthood or no, thank you for joining us. I appreciate your allowing me to usurp your usual Christmas plans.”

“On the contrary, John, I’m quite pleased to be here. This is far more festive than our usual fare. And it is clearly appreciated,” he added, eyes sliding to Imogen, who was spread next to Sherlock on the sofa, flipping excitedly through her new book.

“What about Iphigenia? Will she be joining us?” He hadn’t heard anything from Mrs Holmes, though Mycroft had assured him he would pass on the invitation. He and Iphigenia had parted on good terms the one and only time he’d met her, at the family estate for Imogen’s birthday in July, but she was apparently quite a challenge to contact. Not, as he had first suspected, due to any security concerns, but because of her spontaneous and erratic schedule, which left her rather difficult to pin down.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Mummy is, I believe, currently in Peru.”

“Ah. On her own, for the holidays?”

Looking away, avoiding eye contact with John, Mycroft formed a small frown of displeasure, which disappeared quickly enough that one not well-versed in deciphering the language of the Holmes might have fully missed it. “I believe she has a new…associate…there with her.”

Sherlock snorted, looking at John pointedly. “Lover.”

“Paolo.” The touch of one hand to the knot of his tie was all the betrayed Mycroft’s discomfort with the direction of the conversation.

“Paolo?”

“He’s twenty-five,” Sherlock supplied, with barely masked disgust. John looked between the two brothers, who avoided eye contact with him and each other, and laughed.

“Wow. Go Iphigenia.” John, and Imogen shortly after him, fell into giggles at the twin groans of pain issued by the brothers. “I mean, a woman her age, it’s great to know she’s still confident and can go out there and get what she wants.”

“Dr Watson, please.” Mycroft was clearly feeling well out of his element; he only now used John’s title when he was attempting to re-establish a power relationship between them

“I’m just saying – and I’m sure Sherlock would agree with me –” he glanced at his partner with his best unnerving grin, “that I hope when I’m in my seventies I get as much –”

“John, I beg of you not to finish that sentence!” Sherlock looked actually physically uncomfortable and John stopped talking and laughed, sharing a grin with Imogen, who adored her grandmother and, despite Mycroft and Sherlock’s impatience with the woman, could spend hours listening to her – often rather risqué – stories about her many adventures through the years.

Just at that moment, the knocker on the front door sounded, strong and sure. John stood, leaning to kiss Sherlock on the top of the head, as he went to the stairs to let in Harry. She stood at the door, pink cheeked and wearing an alarmingly furry pair of earmuffs, holding wrapped packages balanced on top of a covered dish in gloved hands.

“Johnny!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms out precariously to envelope him in a hug that had them both stumbling across the threshold. She squeezed his shoulder affectionately as they parted. “This Christmas is already better than the last few.” John couldn’t help but agree – last year had found them morosely sharing takeaway at Harry’s post-divorce flat, the year before full of bloodshed on his part and, he learned later, a rather spectacular alcohol-fuelled fight with Clara on Harry’s.

As he showed her up the stairs, she held up her dish. “I made Mum’s Christmas pudding.”

John stopped on the landing, turning to look at his sister in amazement. “Harry, you didn’t!”

“Started it in October and all. Only booze I’ve been near in months,” she added, lips twitching into a grin.

John bit his lip to hide his smile, but leaned down to give his sister a second hug, murmuring into her hair, more to himself than her, “Jesus, I’ve missed all that.”

She nodded, eyes shining a bit, as they pulled apart. “I know. It’s been, god, it’s been a really long time since we’ve done this all properly. I, um…thanks for –” she gestured up the stairs, unable to articulate the exact source of her gratitude.

John understood, though, and nodded. They might both have their faults and their fears, but he still held onto hope that they could be better, together. That they could move past the difficulties that had defined their relationship for far too long and regain some of the trust they’d shared as children. The softness in her eyes, the frank admission of sobriety, and the fact that they both were on more stable footing than either had experienced in years suggested it may be possible.

After introductions and yet another round of gifting from Harry – John’s obligatory annual jumper, more storybooks for Imogen, a few Bond films for Sherlock, received with a scoff and an utterance about pointless popular culture – John herded them all to the kitchen. The table, newly cleared of lab equipment and covered in one of Mrs Hudson’s cheery tablecloths to disguise some rather unappetizing stains, was rather snugly laid with five settings.

Everyone dug into dinner with relish; John had opted for goose, adding stuffing, potatoes, parsnips, roasted chestnuts, and brussel sprouts to round out the meal. It was quiet for some time as everyone ate with pleasure, John noting a shift in both Sherlock and Imogen’s eating habits toward the slightly more mannerly. He vowed not to mention it but attributed it to the no-doubt mandatory etiquette instilled in the Holmes boys from an early age coming out because of Mycroft’s presence. He wasn’t even sure if they realized they did it.

When the Christmas crackers came out before pudding, they were pulled apart with gleeful snaps. Imogen read the punchlines to the jokes with joyful panache and between John and Harry’s cajoling even Mycroft donned a paper crown. John even managed to snap a couple of photographs before Mycroft stopped being lenient and gave him a glare that rather resembled Imogen’s imaginative rendition.

John got an orange plastic magnifier in his and tossed it to Sherlock. “I heard you were looking for a new magnifier. I’ll trade you; what’d you get?” Sherlock handed him a cheap metal ring with a garish pink plastic gem glued to the top. John slipped it halfway onto his pinkie finger before it got stuck. “Do you think it’s my colour?” he asked Imogen, who giggled then considered the question quite seriously.

“No, it should be blue. Blue is a nice colour for you, it makes your eyes look…happier.”

“Awww,” Harry crooned teasingly. “You and Sherlock exchanging rings now, John? When shall we expect the invitations?”

John scoffed and rolled his eyes but Mycroft, who had been inspecting his own plastic whistle, said, “Yes, quite. Name a date; I’d be able to have the paperwork drawn up with the waiting period waved quite easily.”

Sherlock huffed. “Stay out of it, Mycroft. We haven’t even –” he cut himself off and looked at John, who had been ready himself to tell them both to shut it. “– unless you…?” he murmured uncertainly to John.

John shook his head. “Not – not yet.” Sherlock nodded, relief in his eyes.

“So, bugger off, Mycroft.” Mycroft tipped his chin, surprisingly acquiescent, but John still caught a knowing glance between him and Harry. He narrowed his eyes, not sure how he felt about their siblings colluding. To avoid any unsettling plans being made without his consent, he dished out Harry’s Christmas pudding. 

It was quite like their mother’s, though Harry had fed it a bit less liberally with the brandy, probably mindful of her own limitations. Nonetheless, the taste – rich, sweet, spicy – was more like Christmas than anything he’d eaten on the 25th in years.

++

Mycroft and Harry adjourned shortly after Imogen fell asleep on the sofa. Sherlock gathered her up to tuck her in bed, the excitement of the day having worn her out sufficiently so she didn’t stir.

Coming back out to where John was attempting to quietly do the washing up, Sherlock slipped his hands around John’s waist, kissing the back of his neck. “Do it tomorrow, John, it’s Christmas.”

Turning in Sherlock’s arms, John laughed. “You are only using that as an excuse to get out of helping me dry and I know it. You don’t care a fig for Christmas.” Sherlock answered with a demanding kiss.

“I’m rather coming around to it,” he murmured against John’s lips. “In fact, I’m rather wishing I had bought you that Christmas jumper.”

“Oh?” John’s question came out somewhat breathless as Sherlock mouthed his way down John’s jawline.

“If only so I could have the immense pleasure of stripping it off you now,” he added, nipping at John’s neck just above his collar. “And possibly burning it.”

John snorted a laugh. “Well you’ll have to settle for removing this old thing.” He tugged at the navy merino wool, Harry’s gift. “Though if you burn it I’ll be quite cross.”

Sherlock hummed against his skin, cool hands untucking John’s shirt, skating across his abdomen, grasping his hips. John moaned and pressed against him, his own hands finding purchase in Sherlock’s curls, clutching as Sherlock dropped to his knees and licked the curve of John’s now-exposed pelvic bone. John leaned back against the edge of the sink, spreading his legs as Sherlock unfastened his flies, working his jeans and pants down to mid-thigh.

With no preamble, Sherlock took him in his mouth, wet heat around the head of his cock, tongue lapping at the underside. He worked John, mouth and hand in tandem, moaning when John bucked his hips up. The vibration made John clasp his hair more frantically, subtly guiding Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock continued, the pads of John’s fingers against his scalp, the twisting of his curls, the rough tugs unnecessary but welcome; after months of careful study, Sherlock knew every inch of John’s body, all the minute pressure points and, John was certain, every single way to coax out all possible pleasure. After those same long months, John also knew that Sherlock, bossy and insistent, completely got off on John generously expressing his desire, whether physically or verbally.

John could feel his thighs begin to tense up, the loose, lazy heat in his abdomen coiling tighter, and he tugged Sherlock off him, smiling down and tracing one finger across his wet, swollen lips. “Sofa,” he commanded, and with a feral grin Sherlock stood and walked over, unbuttoning his shirt on the way.

Sherlock divested himself of clothing quickly, efficiently, and John rather less gracefully, but soon enough they were both naked and tumbling onto the sofa, John pushing Sherlock down and situating himself between his legs. A few perfunctory strokes were more than enough to confirm Sherlock’s readiness, a fact only made more obvious by his purposeful arching, legs spread and hips moving up to meet John’s hungrily.

There was lube up in their room but the prospect of disengaging long enough to retrieve it or relocate was not appealing. John spit quite liberally into his palm, pausing to glance down at Sherlock. “Is this…”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, breathless and impatient. He glanced up at John, gaze steady, and nodded. “Yes, John, yes.” John grinned and nodded back, slicking himself up before spitting again to prepare Sherlock.

One leg flung over the back of the sofa, the other propped precariously against the coffee table, Sherlock moved against John’s fingers with his usual controlled insistence. Though John would hardly call himself submissive in bed, he’d grown to quite like the way Sherlock threw himself into each encounter assertively. There was no coyness or pretence about their love life, no need to hide his desire as Sherlock was quite frank about his own.

John pulled his fingers out and steadied himself, one arm near Sherlock’s leg against the back of the sofa, the other gripping the edge of the cushion by Sherlock’s torso. He pushed into Sherlock slowly, exhaling shakily at the grab of his body around him. “C’mon, John,” Sherlock muttered impatiently, hand tight on John’s shoulder, so John snapped his hips, sinking in fully, relishing Sherlock’s low moan.

He began to pump earnestly, rocking his body against the insistent roll of Sherlock’s hips. With a neat twist, Sherlock slid his legs around John’s body, heels digging into his arse to pull him in deeper. John let his body fall closer, until his mouth met Sherlock’s collarbone. He kissed and sucked and, with one particularly forceful thrust, bit down on the pale flesh.

“Jesus, fuck, Sherlock,” he muttered, conscious of the need to stay quiet, “you feel so fucking good.” Sherlock grinned and flexed, a tightening of the muscles which caused John to cry out, eyes wide. “God, Sherlock, I’m close.”

Sherlock’s cock was hard between their bellies, leaving a wet slick below John’s navel. John tried to insinuate a hand between their bodies, to touch Sherlock, stroke him, bring him off before he was too far gone to control his own muscles, but Sherlock pushed his hand away. “Come for me, John. Want to feel you come inside me, first.”

His voice, low and heavy, and the tightening of his thighs holding John close, were enough and with a few short, frantic thrusts, John climaxed, teeth harsh against Sherlock’s shoulder, hands gripping the sofa. He collapsed half on Sherlock and half against the back of the sofa, breath shallow.

Sherlock kept him close – kept him inside him – with his legs, taking advantage of the small space between them to grasp his own cock. John looked down, watched as Sherlock stroked himself, and moved one hand to find his nipple. Sherlock gasped at the sensation, a few quick tugs bringing him off, hips arching and muscles fluttering around John’s still-sensitive cock.

He collapsed loose-limbed into the sofa, letting his legs fall away so John could pull out. John settled himself against Sherlock’s chest, ignoring the sticky mess smearing between their bodies. He leaned up to press their lips together.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” he murmured. Sherlock just smiled against his mouth in response.

**Author's Note:**

> The title, as well as the "Uncles at Christmas" line, are both thanks to Dylan Thomas and his wonderful "A Child's Christmas in Wales."


End file.
